


i'm sorry i came to your party

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, HYDRA Trash Party, Hair-pulling, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Role Reversal, Spit Play, Unsafe Gunplay, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, apologies to siken, as per usual, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, dubcon, jack rollins is an asshole, just truly a lot of saliva i am so sorry, no one in this story is story is a good person, potentially read as non-con in some aspects, spit, told from the winter soldier's point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 23:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12568404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Brock just wants to play with the soldier. Too bad his second in command, Jack Rollins, keeps getting in his way.





	i'm sorry i came to your party

**Author's Note:**

> This is HYDRA Trash Party fic. It involves dubious consent gunplay (and other sexual interactions) in at least two different directions. This whole encounter could also be read as **_entirely non-consensual_**. This is not a depiction of safe sex, and it is **_definitely not_** safe, sane, nor consensual. 
> 
> If that is not your cup of tea, please hit the back button now.

_Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party_  
_and seduced you_  
_and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing._

excerpt from **Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out**  
By Richard Siken

The soldier kneels.

The soldier kneels because his commander ordered him to do so. He spoke the command first in English, then in Russian. The soldier dropped to his knees halfway through the Russian command, realizing his error.

It is fine, though. His commander does not seem displeased with his reaction time. He does not seem to get that the soldier understood the first order and simply failed to comply. The soldier did not understand the reasoning, and so he simply decided not to act. Sometimes, if he does not comply with instructions, his commanding officers grow bored. Sometimes, they taze him to enforce a lesson or exert their control, instead of following through with whatever the original orders were. Sometimes, the tazing is better than the alternative.

Sometimes, it’s worse.

His current commanding officer, Rumlow, does not seem bored. He does not yet seem displeased.

Rumlow is a stern man, with a sharp face and a ever-present smirk. He bites out his words like they are sharp glass and carries himself like he has something to prove. The soldier suspects that he has proven himself many times, over and over, given that he now has the privilege of commanding the soldier. They do not assign unworthy officers to him. It never ends well when they do.

The soldier does not mind Rumlow as a commanding officer. He is not without fault, but he is far better than some of his previous iterations. It is just that the soldier does not always know how to comply with his orders.

“Heel,” Rumlow tells him. “ _Ryadom_ ,” he says again, sharper. Rumlow points to his side.

The soldier complies. He is already kneeling, but he does not point out this tactical error to Rumlow. Instead, the soldier moves forward on his knees, bone against hard tiled floor, until he is at Rumlow’s side, kneeling at his heel. Like a dog.

Sometimes, the soldier realizes that he must change his perspective to make the orders make sense.

“Good boy,” Rumlow says. “If I put a hand in your hair, will you bite it off, or will you be good? _Molodets?_ ”

The soldier does not speak. He knows better. He speaks on missions, but only when it is mission-imperative. To speak now would mean unnecessary complications to the situation. Instead, he bows his head. He knows better than to growl or to bear his teeth like perhaps his first instinct would be. Many times ago -- perhaps many years ago, but he is not sure -- he made that mistake more often than not. He knows better, now. It is less of an instinct now, too.

The soldier’s hair falls into his eyes. Rumlow brushes it back, patting the soldier’s head like a dog. “ _Molodets_ ,” he says. “Good boy.”

The soldier huffs. Being praised is good and fine -- it’s certainly better than being backhanded or brutalized. But it always leaves him feeling like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure of what to say or do. There is no true expectation of him here, no real rules to follow. Rumlow’s definition of _good_ will differ from his previous handler’s, whose definition differed from the one before him. It’s frustrating for the soldier. But, again, it is better than unnecessary violence which he has to bite his tongue and grit his teeth through, so he will take it.

After so long, he will take many things.

He has learned: most times, the fight isn’t worth it.

Besides, he thinks, as Rumlow strokes an unnervingly gentle hand over his hair, sometimes what his handlers want him to do is not so bad at all.

Rumlow strokes his head for a long time. The commander smells like sweat and like gunpowder, like he just came from the gym and then the range. Likely, he did. Training is vigorous in facilities like this. Hydra expects a lot from their personnel -- there is no room for failure. _There is no try, only do_ \-- the soldier was once told. He’s been told a great many things.

 _Order through pain_ , is his current commander’s favorite phrase to spout. But the soldier has noticed that there seems to be very little pain for him, whereas there is much more pain for others under Rumlow’s command. It is not something that the soldier understands, because it is so out of the ordinary based on his wisps of previous memory, but it is also not something that he would ever think about questioning. It is not his prerogative, nor his responsibility.

There is also something freeing, perhaps, in seeing others hurt instead of him.

(There is something malicious in it, too.)

The soldier would gladly take this -- whatever _this_ is -- over pain. Rumlow’s brand of authority concentrates on exerting his control, his power, in other ways over the solider, more insidiously sweet and dominating ways. He often puts the soldier in his place and then treats him like a pet. Sometimes he pampers the soldier, sometimes he does not. The soldier does not really mind either way. On occasion, Rumlow will backhand him, but that seems to be less about the pain and more about the exertion of dominance, the soldier supposes. It never hurts; it is always just intended to surprise, to throw off-balance. The gesture never _works_ , as the soldier is always prepared for any eventuality, but he knows better than to alert Rumlow to that. The soldier knows at that point to play along, to play the good pet.

It is surprisingly easy to do.

It can be rewarding, too.

“Good boy,” Rumlow repeats. He hooks a finger underneath the soldier’s chin and makes him look up, at Rumlow’s face. The soldier knows better than to look at his commander’s eyes, so he looks at Rumlow’s mouth, instead. His commander’s lips are thin, but slightly pink -- an enjoyable visual contrast to his darkly stubbled cheeks. His beard is slightly longer today, which means that perhaps he is stressed. Overworked. Tired. He has not had time to trim his facial hair, which is something that the soldier knows Rumlow is fond of. The commander is a man who values cleanliness and order; he does not let his stubble get out of hand.

Perhaps that is why Rumlow is here today. To exert some of the control he has lost. Though it is not in the soldier’s mission parameters to speculate.

Perhaps the unknown should bother the soldier more. He finds, instead, that he does not necessarily mind at this current moment.

It is nice to be treated nicely, even if the action itself is rooted in maliciousness. The root does not affect the soldier, so it does not matter. _Niceness_ is not something he gets much of, these days.

“Sweet boy,” Rumlow says. He runs the pad of his thumb over the soldier’s bottom lip until it catches and pulls away from the soldier’s teeth. The soldier has to fight against the instinct to pull away: if he does not move, he will eventually drool -- but he knows, given the direction of this encounter, that is likely part of what Rumlow wants. So, he stays. He looks into the middle distance while Rumlow focuses on the red inside of the soldier’s mouth.

The soldier does not get a chance to drool. Rumlow’s fingers sneak inside his mouth and push the action to fulfillment. Rumlow’s fingers invade his mouth, pushing against his tongue, rolling over his teeth, pulling at the corners of his lips.

The soldier swallows on reflex and immediately Rumlow’s other hand catches his throat. His thumb brushes over the soldier’s Adam’s apple: a warning. “ _Ah ah ah_ , sweetheart, don’t you dare. You know what I want.”

The soldier does not swallow again.

He lets the saliva pool on his soft palate, until he can feel it dripping from his lips, down his chin, and onto the ground. Rumlow makes a noise in the back of his throat as he pushes his fingers through the warm liquid. It is less uncomfortable than the soldier would have imagined. Less embarrassing, too. When the soldier glances at his commander’s face, there is something dark and hungry behind his eyes, something ravenous.

Perhaps it should make the soldier wary, but he knows that he is capable of taking whatever Rumlow decides to give him. But he also knows moderately what to expect, as the commander’s free hand is now gently cupping the soldier’s jaw, his thumb running over the stubbled skin of the soldier’s cheek. It is not a touch that predicates abhorrent violence, which is moderately relieving. Not that the soldier cannot take it, but he would simply prefer not to.

Rumlow praises him. He lets out a low moan when the soldier lets his lips close around those fingers. Rumlow did not ask him to do this, but the soldier can extrapolate. He is a trained tactician, even though Hydra does not use him as such. It is easy to follow the thread of this interaction -- this _mission_ \-- into something close to completion. The soldier would never stray too far from orders, as some of his commanders don’t like the idea of him being able to make decisions or have rational thought, but Rumlow does not seem to care much. When the soldier sucks at Rumlow’s fingers, the commander _really_ does not seem to care.

“Fuck yes, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and gravelly. He sounds much less in control than he did moments ago.

Rumlow lets this go on for a while. But soon, as the soldier knew he would, the commander grows bored.

The soldier does not miss Rumlow’s hand moving from the soldier’s chin. He does not miss the trajectory as Rumlow’s hand moves towards his tactical belt, to his gun holster. With a deft and practiced motion, Rumlow unholsters his gun and brings it toward the soldier’s face.

The soldier does not startle. This outcome is -- predictable, knowing what the soldier knows of Rumlow.

The soldier knows what he is going to be asked to do.

Rumlow will take the gun and he will slot it between the soldier’s lips. He will then have the soldier blow it as if it were a cock. When the commander deems the action complete, the encounter will either be finished, or the soldier will be told to blow Rumlow as well. The soldier recollects this happening many times before, though the memories are foggy.

Perhaps he should be wary, but he is not. The soldier is an extremely valuable asset. If Rumlow damages him in any way, the commander’s life will be at stake. It is not necessarily that the soldier _trusts_ Rumlow -- but he _does_ trust the circumstances that bind them together. He trusts what he knows of Rumlow to be true: Rumlow would never jeopardize his life, his position in Hydra, with a reckless action unless he were in complete control.

It is also not a terribly unpleasant task.

“Are you going to be a good boy about this too, sweetheart?” Rumlow asks. He pulls the barrel of the gun over the soldier’s hollowed cheeks and finally withdraws his fingers from the soldier’s mouth. Spit drips down the soldier’s chin.

The door clicks open, but Rumlow does not notice. The soldier does not move his eyes from the commander, but he is now on alert.

“Wow, and here I thought you were doing something useful with your time,” a voice says from the doorway of the training room.

Rumlow startles and turns with a frown. “I thought I locked that.”

The soldier’s eyes fall on the intruder: a tall and muscular man with a scar over his jaw. He carries himself with raw power -- full of potential, but typically relaxed and in control. He is steadier than Rumlow, more disciplined. The soldier recognizes him as Jack Rollins: Rumlow’s second in command.

“You did,” Rollins says. He twirls a keyring around in his hand before grabbing it. “Lucky me; I have the keys.”

“Fuck you, I’m busy.”

“Oh yeah, I can see that,” Rollins says. He glances at the soldier and then back at Rumlow, and then he eyes the gun in Rumlow’s hand with an eyebrow raised. “Real great use of your time there, princess. Company resources, too.”

Rumlow bristles. The soldier can watch the way Rollins’ words light the fuse on Rumlow’s anger. He has been wound tight recently -- perhaps Rollins does not realize this facet of Rumlow’s personality. He seems too eager to egg Rumlow on.

The soldier knows that his previously calculated dynamics and potentials of this encounter have now gone out the window.

“You having fun?” Rollins asks, when Rumlow does nothing but seethe in his direction.

Rumlow huffs. “I _was_.”

Rollins takes a step forward. The movement is neither cautious nor timid, but it is careful and deliberate. “Looks to me like you were taking out some frustration on our friend here.” Rollins looks at the soldier again. His gaze is neither disapproving nor aggressive -- simply assessing. The soldier has a strange impulse to wipe the drool off his face with the back of his hand, to make himself presentable, but Rumlow would not like that, so he does not.

“Yeah?” Rumlow says. “What’s it to you?”

Rollins laughs. “I think you’re pretty fucked in the head, Rum’.” He takes another step forward, then another. Until he’s within arms reach of the commander. “I also think if you harm one hair on that pretty little head of his, you’re going to get the chopping block for _all_ of us. One bad apple spoils the bunch, right?”

Rumlow huffs. He pulls his gun back and holds it out. “It’s not even loaded. Check for yourself. Like I’d be that much of an idiot.”

Rollins takes the gun and checks, the telltale _schick_ of the clip. “Guess you’re right.” Appeased, he hands the gun back to Rumlow, who holsters it. Apparently, the interruption from Rollins was enough to dissuade him from his previous itinerary, as he doesn’t seem keen to continue.

Which leaves the soldier with the following question: where do his orders go from here? What is expected of him, now?

The soldier does not get much time to ponder, as Rollins moves quickly and without warning. Within seconds, with a few kicks and a mighty scuffle, Rollins has Rumlow on his knees next to the soldier, and is holding him there with a hand in his hair and a gun to his temple. Rollins’ gun. Presumably, this one _is_ loaded.

The soldier does not move. Other than a biting groan from Rumlow, the commander has not issued the soldier with any new orders. The soldier’s mission imperative is not to protect Rumlow, but simply to take orders from him. Besides -- despite the position and the inherent threat a gun brings to any situation, Rollins is likely not a serious threat to the commander’s health.

“Stay,” Rollins tells the solider, when he notices the soldier’s eyes darting between the two of them, inquisitive. His tone is authoritative, but laced oddly with kindness.

The soldier takes the orders from Rollins, as he is Rumlow’s second in command. As Rumlow has not issued any new orders, nor has he asked for help, the soldier defers to the orders given. He stays.

“Fuck you,” Rumlow bites out at his second, when Rollins’ hand tightens in his hair. He wobbles on his knees and squirms to try and get free. The soldier watches the proceedings with keen interest, a first-hand spectator. It is interesting to see Rumlow on his knees, same as the soldier. The commander, however, is clearly not at peace with the position. He snarls and twists like a caged animal underneath Rollins’ hand.

“How do _you_ like it, princess?” Rollins asks, jerking Rumlow by the hair to keep him down and in a submissive position. He kicks at his moving legs, too, discouraging him from trying to move more. “You like someone forcing you to your knees?”

“No,” Rumlow hisses. “Obviously. Fuck that. Fuck you.”

“Nah,” Rollins shrugs. He drags the barrel of the gun down Rumlow’s face -- just like Rumlow had done to the soldier. It is interesting, watching the gesture from a different angle. Like in a mirror -- but not. The soldier does not necessarily mind the view. Rumlow’s cheeks are chiseled and harsh with stubborn angles. The muzzle of the gun traces them lovingly. “I don’t think you’re in much of a position to give orders, Rum’.”

Rollins is right; Rumlow is not.

There is something enormously satisfying about seeing the commander on his knees, being treated similarly to the soldier.

“Your pistol wasn’t loaded, princess,” Rollins says. “But mine is.”

Rumlow takes in a sharp breath and goes very still.

The soldier wonders if Rumlow knows what is coming next -- the soldier knows.

Even knowing does not prepare him for the gratification he feels when Rollins brings the muzzle of the gun to Rumlow’s lips. It pulls against Rumlow’s pink bottom lip, dragging against it with the force of the movement. Rumlow is motionless. Perhaps it is the threat of a loaded gun that has him so steady. Or perhaps it is Rollins’ hand in his hair. The grip has loosened to the point where Rollins is moreso holding Rumlow’s head than his hair -- a firm and solid grip with warm fingers. It looks oddly comforting.

“Steady,” Rollins tells him.

“Jack,” Rumlow says, voice quieter than before.

“Shut up, Rum’. You need this. I’ve watched you keyed up and on edge for weeks, dumbass. Let me give you what you need, huh?” He strokes over Rumlow’s hair the way Rumlow stroked over the soldier. Sweet, yet firm.

The soldier watches on, fascinated.

It takes a while for the soldier to realize that Rumlow had only only made the most cursory of efforts to fight his position. If he truly wished to twist out from underneath Rollins’ grasp, he could. The soldier knows they are all capable soldiers, ready to fight captivity by the skin of their teeth. Rollins should not be able to subdue the commander like this -- but he is.

The soldier does not understand why Rumlow is allowing this. Perhaps he is frightened of the gun, of Rollins’ unspoken threat to use it. Perhaps he believes Rollins words that this is what he needs. Perhaps the soldier was wrong -- perhaps he does not need the control he has over the soldier. Perhaps he needs some control exerted over him.

It is an interesting thought. Very different from the soldier’s first assessment -- but perhaps not all that different at all.

It is impressive to watch Rumlow fold, to submit, in front of his very eyes.

“Open up, princess,” Rollins says.

But perhaps he has not yet folded completely. The soldier watches in fascination as Rumlow scowls and turns his head sharply to the side. Rollins backhands him with the gun. Rumlow gasps and spits blood at Rollins feet. “Fuck you,” he bites out. His breathing is hard and ragged, though Rollins still looks down at him with unmovable patience. It must not be easy for Rumlow to let go of his control.

Rollins fingers tighten in Rumlow’s hair again. He yanks sharply and hisses out the order again.

Rumlow’s mouth drops open, just the barest amount. If the soldier obeyed orders so poorly, he would have been reprimanded far more harshly than Rumlow is being now.

“That’s a start,” Rollins says, pulling the muzzle of the gun over Rumlow’s bottom lip. It snaps back up after Rollins drags it down. Rumlow does not drool like the soldier, but it is only a matter of time.

“Enjoying the show?” Rollins asks, and for a moment the soldier does not realize that Rollins is talking to him. He had been too mesmerized by the actions taking place in front of him. He does not know whether to nod or to shake his head; the soldier does not know the correct answer to this question. “That’s okay,” Rollins says. “You don’t have to know the answer. You just have to watch.” He does not touch the soldier, but his words are soft and the order is easy to follow -- the soldier does want to watch. It is no trouble at all.

For the first time, Rumlow’s eyes flick to the soldier, as if he just remembered that they are both there, on their knees. An even playing field. He looks angry, perhaps angry that the soldier is seeing him like this. When he goes to speak, however, Rollins immediately shushes him. “No talking, princess. Let’s put that mouth to better use, huh?”

The commander makes a noise that is startlingly like a growl, baring his teeth at Rollins instead of opening his mouth like a good boy. The soldier keeps himself in check and does not bristle, anticipating the _thwack_ of the gun that connects with Rumlow’s other cheek only a moment later. It is satisfying to watch as Rumlow sags a bit in his posture, as his breathing becomes more and more erratic after the force of the hit.

Rollins grabs Rumlow by the hair and hauls him back up.

Rumlow is not very good at this, the soldier thinks.

This time, when Rollins says “Open,” Rumlow does. His mouth drops open, revealing red gums and bright and shiny teeth. Rollins momentarily explores with his fingers, enough to make Rumlow cough and gag, before he slots the pistol inside those lips. The commander twitches, but the intrusion happens anyway.

“Remember, Rum’: it’s loaded.”

Rumlow goes even stiller.

Rollins gives the commander a moment to get used to the feeling of something between his lips before he begins slowly thrusting the gun in and out of Rumlow’s mouth. If he removes it completely, he takes his time to smear the muzzle over Rumlow’s lips, getting thick saliva all across his face. After a while, Rumlow’s lips begin to drip with spit, the metal of the gun shiny with drool.

“You enjoying yourself?” Rollins asks Rumlow. He does not get an answer, but the soldier does look to Rollins face to study the man. Rollins is a study of control, a perfect example of someone with military discipline. He has patience and steadiness where Rumlow does not. He is a good second in command, even given the current circumstances. Perhaps even _including_ the current circumstances. The soldier had watched the way Rumlow had finally folded, had watched the way the tension had bled out of his muscles when he did.

The soldier watches now as Rollins’ eyes rake over Rumlow as he fucks the pistol into his mouth. The soldier wonders what he is looking for until Rollins eyes finally rest and he chuckles. A quick glance over to Rumlow confirms the soldier’s suspicions: Rumlow’s pants are tented at the groin, looking rather tight and uncomfortable: he is hard. Painfully so, given the way his hips jerk ever so slightly, likely with the need for friction.

“Looks like you _are_ enjoying yourself,” Rollins says. “Poor baby. That looks uncomfortable. Do you want some help?”

Rumlow’s eyes dart up to Rollins, somewhere between pleading and skeptical. He does not trust Rollins’ offer of help. The soldier thinks that is surprisingly prudent, given the current circumstances.

“Go ahead,” Rollins slips the gun from Rumlow’s lips and wipes the excess spit off on Rumlow’s stubbled cheek. “I’ll give you one opportunity to ask for some help. If you deny it, you don’t get to get off tonight.”

“Fuck you,” Rumlow says, spitting at Rollins’ feet.

Rollins only laughs, not a hint of anger in his voice. This behavior is expected, apparently; it is no surprise. “Is that your final answer, princess?” Rollins pushes over Rumlow’s lips with the muzzle of the gun.

“No,” Rumlow says, after a beat. “No I -- fuck, Jack. Please.”

Rollins smirks. “Alright, baby. Because you asked so nicely.” He pushes the pistol between Rumlow’s lips again and takes a step forward, closer to the other man. The soldier does not think that Rollins is hard at this point, but it is difficult to tell. Perhaps his control is spectacular.

Rollins fists his spare hand in Rumlow’s hair and pushes him down until his knees are splayed and his ass is on the ground. It’s a sloppy kneel, nothing the soldier himself would ever get away with, but is the position that Rollins has asked for, so he must have his reasoning.

Rumlow looks like he is about to complain at the lack of touch when Rollins takes a step forward and presses the sole of his boot down on Rumlow’s crotch. Not hard, just resting it there. The soldier watches as Rumlow’s face goes from annoyed and impatient to infuriated and embarrassed. And then, when Rollins rocks his foot down ever so slightly, Rumlow’s face twists in relief.

It can’t possibly be the touch Rumlow was looking for, but it is better than nothing. The soldier knows that much.

“No whining,” Rollins tells Rumlow as the soldier looks on. “This is all you deserve. After all, you were being very unkind to our friend here.” Rollins nods at the soldier.

The soldier does not argue, but he thinks that Rumlow was not necessarily being _unkind_. He was being a lot nicer than many of his previous commanding officers. But, he cannot argue that he prefers this turn of events. The soldier much prefers spending his evening watching Rumlow on his knees than the previous activities. Not that he minded those so much, either.

“Is that good?” Rollins asks, continuing to rock his foot against Rumlow’s groin. It cannot be the most comfortable, but the continued pressure is appearing to make Rumlow desperate. He makes an animalistic noise in his throat, mouth still stretched around the gun, and his eyes finally shift closed. Rollins continues to thrust the gun into Rumlow’s mouth, pushing it slowly back until it hits the back of Rumlow’s throat. He pushes it until Rumlow gags, once, then twice. The soldier has no doubt that Rumlow would have done the same to the soldier.

Rumlow does not nod his answer, but it is clear that somehow, despite the circumstances, he is enjoying himself immensely. Given what the soldier knows of Rumlow, he would _never_ willingly put himself in a position like this -- just as he would not go down without a hell of a fight -- but it is clearly something that he needs. Rollins apparently knows him very well.

It does not take long for Rumlow’s hips to begin thrusting against Rollins’ boot, despite the warning to keep still. It is not the most cautious of decisions, as Rumlow should remain perfectly still, given that Rollins’ bun is loaded, but Rumlow is likely not at his most rational. Perhaps he has not been at his most rational for a while.

“Good boy,” Rollins says, letting Rumlow rock against his foot like a dog seeking its pleasure against an inanimate object. Rollins thrusts the gun again until Rumlow gags. His whole attention is focused on Rumlow, fingers tight in his hair, pulling roughly at it as he fucks his mouth with the gun. It is lucky that Rollins attention is undivided, as it gives the soldier plenty of opportunity to stare.

Rumlow is a sight to behold. Sweat glistens on his forehead, his skin red with exertion and embarrassment. He is panting around the gun, drooling from those pink lips of his. And he is humping his second in command’s boot like an animal. The soldier has not seen something so enthralling for years.

The soldier is so transfixed, so lost in watching the act, that he is taken by surprise when Rollins pushes the gun a bit too far, a bit too fast, and Rumlow coughs and gags and groans loudly, hips stuttering against Rollins’ boot. Rollins pulls the gun back and Rumlow collapses forward, panting and moaning and shaking.

“Came in your pants like a teenager,” Rollins laughs. He ignores Rumlow -- mess that he is, coming down off his high from orgasm -- and cleans his pistol off on his shirt. Perhaps it is just Rollins being polite, giving Rumlow the space he needs to put himself back together without prying eyes. Perhaps it is just Rollins being done with the task at hand.

The soldier watches Rumlow with fascinated eyes as he comes down off the high of endorphins, as his breaths go from ragged to at least partially under control. The soldier does not give him the courtesy of privacy. At this point, he does not think it is deserved.

“Huh,” Rollins says from above him.

The soldier looks up at him, puzzled at the sudden attention. When he looks up, he meets Rollins’ eyes: Rollins looks amused and his gaze flicks down to the soldiers crotch. After a moment, the soldier looks down as well: he is hard in own pants. Oh. The soldier hadn’t even noticed.

“Rum’,” Rollins says. “Looks like you put on quite the show for our friend here.”

When Rumlow looks up, his eyes are glassy, his gaze far away. He looks at Rollins, not the soldier.

“Do you think you could help him out?” Rollins asks. It does not sound like a question, but instead very much like an order. The soldier knows the tone of orders, even sickeningly sweet ones phrased like questions like this.

Rumlow nods mechanically, likely still out-of-sorts from his previous treatment.

“Unzip yourself, asset,” Rollins orders. It is an easy order to obey, even if the soldier hesitates for a second. For a moment he doubts that this is truly reality. It cannot be -- and yet, it is. He unzips his trousers and, when Rollins nods at him, pulls out his cock. _Oh._ His length is painfully hard and is already leaking at the tip.

“Suck,” Rollins says to Rumlow, fisting a hand in his hair to pull him closer to the soldier. Rumlow has to crawl on his hands and knees like an animal, but he moves easy with the tug to his hair. Before the soldier can truly reconcile the situation, there are warm and wet lips around his cock.

Not even Rumlow was allowed this reward.

It is a heady thought, he thinks, as he looks down to watch his commander suck his cock. Rollins keeps a hand on Rumlow’s head, moving him according to a rhythm that he determines, leaving nothing up to the commander. There is something about watching the two of them that makes the experience better. The soldier particularly likes watching the way Rollins fingers tighten in Rumlow’s hair; he enjoys watching him tug Rumlow back and forward so roughly.

He also likes watching the stretch of Rumlow’s lips around his cock. His mouth is soft and slick and perfect. The soldier has not felt anything like it in recent memory. So rarely does anyone touch him, especially not like this. Sometimes, he is allowed to touch himself, and sometimes others bring him off with a quick hand, but there is no comparison to this. This brings a moan to the soldier’s throat, even though he is normally so silent.

Rumlow’s form is messy, but he is also good at the task. The soldier briefly wonders if Rumlow does this often to his second in command. He imagines it, wanting to watch that, too. There is something satisfying about Rumlow on his knees, a beacon of such power and aggression brought to a complete standstill.

The soldier’s hips buck, seeking more friction and depth, and Rumlow moans.

Rollins laughs. “Again,” he orders.

The soldier obeys, thrusting into Rumlow’s mouth while Rollins holds his head steady. He can feel the head of his cock hitting the back of Rumlow’s throat. It is glorious and tight and warm. After a while, Rumlow stops gagging, getting used to the constant onslaught of the soldier’s thrusts.

The soldier cannot contain the noises inside him. It seems to be fine, though, as when he looks up at Rollins for assurance, Rollins is looking down at him with approval. “Good boy,” he says. “Very good.”

And that is good enough for the soldier.

“Take what you need,” Rollins says from above him, and so the soldier does.

He continues thrusting, eyes focused downward on Rollins hand in Rumlow’s hair, at Rumlow’s lips wrapped around his cock. It feels _so good_ , so new, so blissfully taboo for the soldier, that the pleasure sneaks up on him before he recognizes it for what it is. Before he can stop himself, he is thrusting deep into Rumlow’s heat and spilling himself inside, white-hot pleasure washing over his skin. He closes his eyes and breathes for a moment, wobbly on his knees but not entirely unstable.

When he opens his eyes, Rumlow’s lips are still around his softening cock. It twitches in interest as the soldier studies his commander, who swallows around him.

“Good boys,” Rollins says. He pulls Rumlow back until the commander is sitting on his knees. His eyes are perhaps even glassier than before, gaze faraway and gone.

The soldier zips himself back into his trousers. He feels good. At ease and lighter than before.

The soldier looks up at Rollins for orders, as his commander appears to be currently out of commission.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Rollins says, words aimed at the soldier. He looks over at Rumlow and laughs. “He’s hard again, _jesus christ_. Just from blowing you -- what a slut.”

It must be uncomfortable for Rumlow, growing hard again in pants which he has already come inside. Or it would have been uncomfortable, if he was in his right frame of mind.

“Guess I should do something about that, then, huh?” Rollins says to the soldier, who is not sure if he expects an answer.

When Rollins does not speak again, the soldier hazards a nod. Rollins smiles -- clearly, the correct answer.

“This ain’t comfortable at all. I’m moving this party to my quarters.” Rollins hauls Rumlow to his feet. The commander stands mechanically, though he leans slightly into his second in command.

The soldier remains kneeling.

Rollins looks down at him, eyebrow raised. “Well, you coming? You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

The words are not what the soldier had expected. He is so rarely given a choice, and almost _never_ with recreational activities like this. If he is given _any_ choice, it is to choose between two undesirable activities, usually ending up participating in both, anyway. This is a gift, he thinks, that Rollins is giving him. He can either retire to his own holding cell, or he can remain and participate in more activities involving this glassy-eyed and pliant Rumlow. Either is up to him.

The soldier stands. He takes one step toward Rollins and Rumlow, and then another.

This is far too precious an opportunity to pass up.

**Author's Note:**

>  **russian translations:**  
>  _ryadom_ \- heel  
>  _molodets_ \- good boy
> 
>  **notes:**  
>  i truly apologize for this. i felt the itch for some hydra trash, so...i just had to make it happen. i know i've written things very similar to this before, but that evidently did not stop me. anyway, if you made it this far, thanks for reading. 
> 
> a huge thank you to [lingua-mortua](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com) for suggesting that this quote was perfect for hydra husbands. she was incredibly right.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


End file.
